


The Oldest Profession

by icecrystal2k



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecrystal2k/pseuds/icecrystal2k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a challenge for Jerry the Punk/Old Ben (Fallout: New Vegas). Jerry, Great Khans' only poet, gets a taste of life in the big city. More cute, less angsty!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oldest Profession

Part One

   Some dumb kid just in from the wastes. That was Old Ben’s first impression, as the pale, skinny lad with a flipped fringe of black hair came up to the counter. He had a bag on his back.  
   James Garret was closest, and he planted his hands on the bar. “Followed our siren, eh? What’ll it be -- hungry? Thirsty? Horny?”  
   The white skin of the kid’s cheeks flushed, which just added to the his embarrassment and made him stammer. Like so many of them from the wastes, he’d come in hoping to play cosmopolitan. Thought he was the cat’s meow, Mr. Worldly, in whatever tiny waterhole he’d been raised in. First stop on the outskirts of Sin City, first taste of the seamy, and he was blushing like a schoolboy. Old Ben, leaning on his crossed arms on his bar stool, took a drink to hide his smile.  
   The kid said, “Can I have a Nuka-Cola?”  
   James shot his sister a look. _Big spender, watch out!_ She gave him a secret smile back. _Ah, let the kid have his fun._  
   “Sure, kid.” James got one from the shelf and cracked the cap off. “Where you from?”  
   Pale Boy was looking around the dim, close lobby. The grimy light pouring in the high windows gave everything a mottled look. “Outside. I’m going to be a Follower.”  
   “Are you? If you’re on your way to their fort, you took a wrong turn.”  
   “Yeah,” the kid admitted. “Uh … I need directions.”  
   “Drink up first, before it goes flat.”  
   The kid slid onto the barstool next to Old Ben’s. He nodded to the older gentleman, and Old Ben nodded back. Old Ben didn’t get paid for small talk, but he gave the young man an encouraging smile.  
   “Hi,” the kid said. He was fiddling with his bottle of Nuka-Cola. He was too nervous to drink it. “I’m Jerry.”  
   James was grinning at them; Old Ben could feel it. “Ben. Sometimes they call me Old Ben.”  
   “Been around a long time,” Jerry said, his young voice full of faux wisdom. He nodded sagely.  
   “Yep,” Ben said, trying not to laugh.  
   “So, you passing through?” Jerry asked.  
   “No. This is home.” Old Ben finished his beer. He hoped another client would be in soon. He was getting bored.  
   “What do you do here?”  
   James’s grin was practically _audible_. His sister had gone to the back rooms to do some actual work, not as interested in Humiliation Theater as her brother.  
   Old Ben made a contemplative sound. “People pay me to … show them around.” To the rooms upstairs, for instance. So it wasn’t a total lie.  
   Jerry’s face lit up. “Oh, wow. You sound like the guy to talk to. How much do I have to pay you to show me around? I’ve heard about the Followers and I’d like to see a few of the sights before it’s all work, work, work...”  
   “Nah, kid, I doubt I’ve got anything you’d want to see.”  
   Beatrix came sashaying into the lobby. She had picked up a certain swagger in her hips, accentuated by the whip she wore in her belt and the few straps of leather that were slung across her dry, hard flesh. Never a woman to fuck with, but since arriving at the Atomic Wrangler she had cultivated an air of sultry _command_. She knew how to put sex in her rough voice, promising treats for good boys and punishment for bad ones. She loved her job. Entering the lobby, she saw the pale young man with black hair looking to Old Ben with sparkling eyes, and traded smiles with James.  
   She came up to the bar, behind Jerry.  
   “Old Ben knows his way around,” she said, putting in a good word. The kid looked nervous, probably his first time anyplace like this. She figured Old Ben could use a little help closing the deal.  
   Jerry turned to look at her and his eyes went as wide as saucers. He wasn’t surprised by the fact she was a ghoul as much as by her outfit.  
   Beatrix grinned. “Howdy. My afternoon’s free if you’re interested in something a little different, but Ben’ll treat you right.”  
   Jerry looked back at Old Ben in confusion. James was giggling, and it was making Old Ben a little mad, seeing everyone picking on the poor kid. You couldn’t buy that kind of innocence. It didn’t seem right to mock it, just because they were all jaded fucks.  
Beatrix was still in blithe form. She’d just made a fella scream til he was hoarse, that always got her happy. “Give him a discount, Ben. He’s probably been saving his pocket money.”  
   The grin died on James’s face. “If I hear you’ve been giving discounts, Beatrix --”  
   Beatrix flicked the soft leather tassels of her whip. “You’ll what, James?” She still had her revolver, too. Some of the men liked it, the way she could spin it on her fingers, the power of a loaded gun and their weak, naked bodies. It took all sorts, Beatrix was finding.  
   Jerry’s confused face turned back to Ben. “Discount?”  
   Ben smiled kindly. “I’m a man-whore, kid.”  
   Jerry was suddenly scarlet from the neckline of his dirty white shirt to his jetblack hair. “Oh. Oh. Uh --”  
   “Finish your soda,” Old Ben said, glaring at James, who looked about to explode from amusement. He turned back to the kid. “The way to the Mormon Fort -- that’s where the Followers are -- you go out the door, up the street to the King’s place. Can’t miss it, neon signs and all. Take a left at the King’s school and go through the train car. Fort’ll be right ahead of you.”  
   “I’m sorry! Thank you. Sorry. Thank you.” Jerry was a flinching bundle of nerves. He picked up his bottle of soda, clinked it against his teeth sharply, winced, and set it back down. “Here. Thank you.” He got to his feet and put three caps on the counter. “Thank you.”  
   He scurried to the door, reviewing Old Ben’s directions in his head. He paused in confusion, and Ben called, “Toward the King’s place. Then _left_.”  
   Jerry stuttered some more thanks and dashed out the door.  
   Beatrix and James burst into laughter.

Part Two

   A month and a half later, Old Ben was perched on the same seat, drinking what tasted like the same beer, listening to Hadrian’s stand-up routine. (It took Hadrian about six weeks to get through his material, then he started going around again) During that time Old Ben had made friends with a few ladies, all well on their way to being regulars. He was suave, with a few well-chosen words he brought the girlishness bubbling out of even the most careworn woman of a certain age. Sometimes he got his hand around their bottoms or their waist and they laughed, or they told him where they were from, how many kids or husbands they had buried -- they weren’t pathetic, they were beautiful, and he could make them feel it. He was doing good. He was also very good with the ones who wanted a pair of strong, sinewy arms to toss them down on the bed for some quick fun. He hadn’t had many male customers, not that his girls didn’t keep him busy and James nodding happily at the caps that flowed in.  
   Old Ben was meditating on this lack of male companionship -- he didn’t _mind_ , but sometimes he got the urge to order from the other side of the menu, variety was the spice of life -- when the door swung open and that skinny, black-haired kid walked into the lobby.  
   He approached the bar, just like before. He was wearing what looked like the same clothes, a pair of overalls and a white T-shirt. His black hair was going brown at the roots. Old Ben saw him coming and looked into his drink. He didn’t want to embarrass the guy.  
Jerry took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer from Francine. No soda this time. He made a show of toying with the bottle, asking for a glass, a lot of movement in the corner of Old Ben’s eye that Old Ben could have sworn was calculated to draw his attention. The beer bottle kept inching further toward Old Ben, until finally Jerry, desperate not to be ignored anymore, said    “Hello.”  
   Old Ben looked over at him and smiled. “Hello. How’s life at the Mormon Fort?”  
   “You remember me!” Jerry said, surprised.  
   ‘I remember all the cute ones’ was, well, what Old Ben would have usually said. Instead he nodded. “Settled in?”  
   “Yeah! It’s much better than back home. I mean, the food is pretty terrible. And the smell. But …” Jerry trailed off. He’d learned in the last few weeks not to be quite so … Jerry. The Followers weren’t that interested in whiners.  
   “Good to hear, anyway,” Ben said.  
   There was a long silence. The kid was almost done with his beer. He was fidgeting. “Hey, uh … can I hire you?”  
   Old Ben hesitated in surprise, a pause just long enough for the kid to look crushed, then Ben turned with a smooth, wide, white grin. “Tell me when you’re ready, and we’ll go upstairs.”

   Francine and James watched Old Ben gallantly guide Jerry up the stairs.  
   “Randy old dog,” James said. “I believe he’d go up there for free.”

   Old Ben had use of a stock of candles. Part of the “boyfriend experience” was an ambiance so romantic that it could almost be pre-War. One of the guards had dashed up to light a candle on the bedside table, the ceiling lights were off so you couldn’t see the grime, and every surface glowed. The broken glass face of the cabinet reflected a constellation of delicate flames. Old Ben shut the door behind them as Jerry kept babbling.  
   “ -- I don’t know, but you were so nice, and I started thinking about it and I’ve never seen someone like you before, all smooth and I like your clothes. Back home everybody smells like ass and there’s so much dust -- and all the girls hate me -- and when I got to the fort I just kept thinking about you --”  
   Jerry had come to a stop just inside the door. Old Ben leaned forward to trap Jerry’s body between his own and the desk, and Jerry shrank back a bit. Jerry’s skin was almost translucently pale in the dim light, his pupils were enormous, and Old Ben put his brown hand on his cheek. Ben traced his thumb on the hard cheekbone under the kid’s wide eyes. He was excited, with a touch of panic.  
   Old Ben put his fingers through Jerry’s fringe of hair, carding it. His real hair color was a mousy brown, visible at the roots. The black hair felt unnaturally stiff. “What is this? Boot black?”  
   Jerry’s big eyes squinted as he shrugged. “I keep trying to wash it out. Julie says it’s kind of a fire hazard.”  
   “Smart lady. Don’t get near the candle and we’ll be fine.” Old Ben’s chuckle was deep. “I’m going to kiss you.”  
   “Okay,” Jerry whispered.  
   Old Ben liked how full the young man’s lips were. Smooth, unlike his own drier, papery ones. Young mouths, nothing like them. He kissed Jerry again, deeper, sliding his arm around Jerry’s waist and feeling the slight tremble in him. Jerry’s skin was chafed and prickling from Old Ben’s scruff, and he ran his pale fingers over it thoughtfully, licking his lips. “That was nice.”  
   “I’m glad. There’s more where that came from.”

   They moved to the bed. Ben took off his suit jacket and joined Jerry, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed and moving the buckled suspender straps off of his shoulders. Old Ben kissed him again, shifting them back toward the pillows and the headboard, and when he got Jerry there Old Ben called a brief time out.  
   “Are you a virgin?” Old Ben asked.  
   “Of course not. I’m seventeen.” Jerry preened slightly as he said it, and then with a sudden burst of bravado he tried to yank his shirt over his head in one swift, sure motion. His arms caught and tangled in the material and he struggled for a few seconds with his elbows pinned at his ears until Ben helped him pull it off. Ben managed to swallow his grin just as Jerry’s flustered face emerged from the hem of the shirt, blinking owlishly, blushing, his hair all askew.  
   “As old as that,” Old Ben said in amusement. “Well, then, you’re a man of the world. Tell me what you like.”  
   Jerry looked at Ben thoughtfully, then he took hold of the sleek material of Ben’s tie. He pulled Old Ben in for another kiss, pressing forward to make up for his anxiety, as he tried to take his turn undressing Ben. He fumbled over the knot and Old Ben’s hands joined his, gently, doing most of the work to get it undone. Old Ben, now in his shirtsleeves, top buttons open to frame his firm Adam’s apple and the deep color of his skin against the greyish-white, helped Jerry out of his overalls, kissing down the almost-hairless chest as he went. Then Jerry made a small, embarrassed sound as Old Ben’s dark hands made their way into his waistband, and brought the underwear down off the kid’s skinny white hips, revealing the petite length at half-mast.  
   Jerry instinctively moved to cross his legs, but Ben’s hands were on his thighs, running up toward the crease of his groin, holding them apart.  
   “That’s what’s supposed to happen,” Old Ben said. He smiled with kindness and heat at the boy, ran his rough fingers and palm along the kid’s length, and the lithe young cock twitched in his hand. “Good boy.”

   Jerry’s tastes were vanilla. Untutored. Simple. He was eager and clumsy, a lot more energy than technique, and Old Ben took the opportunity to show him a few things -- reach down there, under those. Use your fingers or your knuckles like _that_ \-- and he had the kid gasping and slippery under him.  
   When they finished, Ben let Jerry cuddle as they caught their breath. On the house. Old Ben, satisfied he had done a good day’s work, lay on his back and Jerry was a pale featherweight on his dark, strong chest. He could feel the kid had something he wanted to say, so Ben comfortably moved back to confidant, “boyfriend”.  
   “You’ve done some growing up since I last saw you,” Ben said.  
   “Not that much,” Jerry said. “It was only a month ago …” Jerry looked up at him slyly. “Anyway, that wasn’t the first time I was in here.”  
   “What?” Old Ben snorted a short laugh. “Damn.. I could have sworn ... You looked so jumpy.”  
   “Because the last time I came in, I got thrown out,” Jerry explained. “I had different hair, though. A blue mohawk. I guess they didn’t recognize me.”  
   Old Ben (he didn’t feel so old, with this beautiful boy in his arms) chuckled again.

   They got dressed. Jerry pulled a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his overalls, along with his caps. “I wrote you something. It’s a poem.”  
   Old Ben finished fixing his collar and turned to him. “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.”  
   Back in his clothes and ready to perform, Jerry was suddenly shy again. This piece mattered to him. “It’s called ‘Old Ben’. I wrote it when I was thinking about you.” Jerry opened the paper and cleared his throat:

 _Old Ben!  
Brown eyes and suave voice  
When I saw you I had no choice  
I knew I wanted to be with you  
Show me what to do  
Old Ben!_

   Old Ben’s eyebrows raised as if he were very, very impressed. “That was --”  
   “There’s a second verse,” Jerry said quickly, and he went on:

 _Old Ben!  
Skin of ebony, hair of jet  
You’re older and wiser,  
Why do you work for that miser --  
James Garrett._

   Adolescently awful, and Old Ben was biting the inside of his cheek, but Jerry was beaming.  
   “Beautiful!” Old Ben declared.  
   “I brought you a copy to keep if you want it.”  
   “I’d love to.”  
   Jerry handed him the scrap of paper. Even for their most literate members, there was little call for writing among the Khans (and no paper anyway) and his handwriting was large and unpracticed. Old Ben folded up the paper, took out his cigarette case (a nice silver and leather piece from the Old World), and put the poem into the cover. He tucked the case into his suit jacket’s inner pocket and patted his chest. “There. Over my heart.”  
   Jerry blushed in pleasure. He’d never had anyone put one of his poems next to their heart before. “Can I come back and see you again?”  
   “I’d be sad if you didn’t,” Old Ben said.

   Late that night, Old Ben sat on his cot. He was counting out the day’s wages. He reached for another cigarette, and found himself out. Damn. He took the small jar of dried tobacco leaves and rifled around in his briefcase. Out of cigarette paper, too. _Damn._ He shook his cigarette case in annoyance and Jerry’s poem fluttered out. He eyed the paper. It was a real shame, but needs must...  
   He spread the paper and took a pinch of dried tobacco from his jar. He made a pile on the poem, started to roll it, and then he stopped. He picked up a corner, shook the dried leaves off, neatly folded the poem again and settled it safely back into his gilt cigarette case. He put it back in his pocket, next to his heart. Getting soft and romantic at your age, Ben?

Well, no fool like an old fool.


End file.
